


Tighten Up The Slack

by anatomical_heart



Category: Crooked Media RPF, Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: (Am I Doing This Right?), Annoyed Dad Favs, Bachelor Party Weekend Fic, Disgruntled Lovett, First Time Writing For The Fandom, Hard Poking Fun, Insecure Lovett, Lovett Can't Help Being The Center Of Attention, Lovett Will Read You For Filth, M/M, Mild Squabbling, NOLA Fic, Past Pining Mention, Russia Mention, Surprise Suave Tommy, alcohol mention, getting together fic, mild pining, smoking mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 09:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: They were in New Orleans, at the second bar of the night.





	Tighten Up The Slack

**Author's Note:**

> **Standard rules apply:** Please cultivate your chill. Be normal. Don't tweet or share with anyone involved. Ever.

They were in New Orleans, at the second bar of the night. Something less crowded and more expensive. A place that was garnering a reputation for its impressive whiskey selection. It was newer, clearly a place cis-het white dudes spending their mid-thirties gentrifying the area thought was a good idea. Favs loved it instantly, of course, because he was nothing if not a tragically predictable, heteronormative, piece of yuppie garbage who looked like a poster boy for the L.A. area. Tommy had reserved the back patio like a champ, so they could toast the death of Favs’s bachelorhood in relative, swanky privacy. So smart, their Tommy. 

It was whatever, Lovett decided, taking everything in. It would certainly do, anyways. The “patio,” he realized, was actually a decently-sized courtyard that’d been recently restored to showcase the beauty in its original design. It had old brick walls covered in ivy and embellished with wrought ironwork; the lighting consisted of Edison lamps and string lights that had taken over every fucking gastropub he’d visited over the last three years. The seating, though? Fucking faux-leather couches and armchairs that had been neatly arranged around glass and iron tables. Possibly _the_ most impractical, pretentious thing Lovett had encountered on their trip so far. Which was, in fact, quite impressive.

“Are you kidding me? We're in the middle of a sub-tropical climate and they choose to have faux-leather patio furniture? What do they do when it rains,” he complained, running a hand through his hair, which allowed him to covertly wipe away the sweat gathering along his brow. It was slowly creeping up on midnight in May, and the humidity was giving him the fucking vapors. And not for the first time that night, he was reminded _just_ how long he’d been away from D.C. again.

Plopping down into an armchair, Favs stretched out his legs and folded his hands behind his head. “Shut up, Lovett,” he called across the courtyard, “I can hear you kvetching from here.” It was said with his trademark combination of affection and mild exasperation. Favs was loose. Happy. That stupid grin plastered on his face since before they left California. Some of the acquaintances Lovett knew vaguely, but not enough to make comfortable conversation with, laughed along.

Lovett bit the inside of his cheek and did not reply, becoming painfully aware of the fact that every single fucking one of the men at this bachelor party looked like they walked out of a Ralph Lauren or Banana Republic ad. Even the dads—who may or may not have been as boring as Lovett wanted them to be—were irritatingly modelesque, bronzed, and looked like they graduated magna cum laude from some ivy league school their parents bought them into.

Tommy brought up the rear of their party, holding the door open for the woman who would be the patio’s personal bartender. She too, looked like she belonged in the glossy pages of a magazine, and made shameless eyes at Tommy, which Lovett didn’t begrudge her for one bit because _fuck._ He looked good tonight. Like, really good. Offensively good. Just obnoxiously, repulsively good-looking in his stupid fucking navy-colored Indochino tailored button-up shirt, _god fucking dammit_.

Favs and the rest of his entourage welcomed the bartender with genuine interest and rapt attention as she passed out drink menus and began explaining the selections of whiskey that were rare, on special, and newly-acquired. Lovett kept his distance, trying to get a hold of himself. Yet another loud, boisterous round of eastern-Mass guffawing filled the air and he was once again overcome with the knowledge that Favs was getting fucking married. Jesus Christ. Everything about what was happening tugged at something nameless near Lovett’s solar plexus that he really, really didn’t want to analyze or feel right then. Or ever. Never was fine, too.

Tommy fell into place beside him, easy as anything. “Buy you a drink,” he asked, in that charming, understated way he had which let Lovett know nothing really escaped his notice—including Lovett’s shift in moods. Like when trying-to-get-a-laugh bitter sharpened into I-can’t-fucking-stand-any-of-you-or-myself bitter. Or when being-standoffish-because-I’m-better-than-all-of-you turned into being-standoffish-because-I-don’t-want-to-show-how-inferior-I-feel. Who knew a human boat shoe could be so fucking astute?

Lovett looked at Tommy out of the corners of his eyes. He had his hands in his pockets as he observed the group—debating the merits of Scotch versus Irish, while also judging each others’ orders—and appeared more relaxed and well-rested than he’d been in weeks. It seemed as though Vacation Tommy had decided to join them after all. 

Despite all of this, despite the warmth settling into his belly at Tommy singling him out, Lovett scoffed at his offer. “Yeah, sure. Arsenic, straight up.”

Tommy let out an amused breath and nudged Lovett with his shoulder. “Would you get over yourself for two seconds, please?”

“ _How_ long have you known me, Thomas?”

“Our friend is getting married. I know it’s hard not being the center of attention for an entire weekend—”

“Oh, what the fuck ever—”

“—but I’m trying to dull that pain by offering you free alcohol.”

“Thank you so much for your pity drink, your WASPiness.”

“Seriously, Lovett, what’re you having?”

There were several quips that came to Lovett in rapid succession:

_Existential crisis, right on fucking cue._

_Jim Comey-levels of mild nausea at the thought of being forced to participate in some weird heteronormative bachelor party ritual intended to prove my masculinity._

_Your cock in my mouth at the end of the night._

This last was accompanied by a visceral pang of longing he’d thought he’d buried years ago, god _fucking_ dammit.

What Lovett actually said, though, feeling tired and conceding the kindness, was, “Vodka tonic.”

Tommy turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded once. “Vodka at a whiskey bar. Bold move.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular maverick, didn’t you know?”

“Should I start calling you ‘McCain,’ then?”

“You do and I will _ruin_ you. Just absolutely eviscerate you in front of everyone here.”

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like I called you ‘Lieberman’ or something—”

“Oh, you better get the fuck away from me right now, Vietor,” Lovett yelled, drawing everyone’s eyes.

Tommy ducked away, fucking _giggling_ as he made to catch the bartender who was headed back inside to make their first round of drinks. 

Everyone stared at him and burst once more into collective laughter. 

Jesus Christ, the night was going to be the death of him.

***

A little more than an hour later, Lovett found himself nursing his second vodka tonic and sitting in one of the faux-leather armchairs, flatly refusing to admit how comfortable they were. (They were.) A heady, bluesy melody poured into the courtyard through the sound system and wrapped itself around him inch by fucking inch. While he didn’t have anything against blues music generally, it wasn’t his usual speed—it wasn’t the kind of frequency he operated on or craved, wasn’t something he’d put on for himself. But the singer’s broken-hearted voice barbed with desire plucked just the right strings inside of him in that moment, winding him up and making him ache. It was terrible. Delicious. Frustrating as hell. It set him to finishing his drink in one go.

He lifted his eyes to Tommy, lounging across from him: Feet up on the table and seemingly unaffected by the twang of guitars and yearning lyrics that pulled something taut inside himself. Eyes closed, Tommy looked the picture of content and unconcerned as he held his neat GlenDronach 18 in one hand and brought his cigar up to his mouth with the other, head tipped back. 

Someone had passed around cigars because apparently that was a thing? Lovett didn’t care for cigars. They didn’t do anything for him, unlike the pack of cigarettes he’d purchased the night before the election and now carried with him everywhere in case he couldn’t get a hold of Favs or Tommy and needed to slow down his racing thoughts. He hadn’t had a cigarette in going on five years—after his mother asked him to quit, and he did, cold turkey; he took up chewing gum, pen caps, and fingernails to compensate, another bad habit he couldn’t seem to break—but he kept them, just in case. He’d taken the cigar out of reflex, maybe. Politeness. He didn’t light up, though. Just gave it to Tommy, who tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt for safe-keeping.

Lovett had never seen Tommy smoke before. Had thought he would’ve refused the cigar on principle as it was offered. _Oh! No, thanks, chums. I run at least ten miles a day and drink my weight in protein shakes and eat organic, locally-sourced baby kale as a fucking snack,_ Lovett thought, mocking. But there went young Tommy Vietor, surprising him yet a-fucking-gain. He watched as Tommy brought the smoke into his mouth, and exhaled like he was royalty after savoring every note and flavor. It was positively pornographic and it rendered Lovett completely fucking speechless, right there in the middle of a Louisiana night, in a dimly-lit courtyard, at a bourgeois whiskey bar, on Favs’s fucking bachelor party weekend.

Throat dry, words robbed from him, Lovett felt bereft in that moment, his place in the world suddenly more precarious as he toed a dangerous line in his mind. A line which, once crossed, would inevitably cause him to do something stupid.

Something like…

"Y'know, that bartender was checking you out.” It was an observation; it was bait. Insecure, self-loathing bait which he regretted almost instantly. Nevertheless, he licked his lips and waited to see if Tommy took it.

The corner of Tommy’s mouth quirked upward, and he said nothing for an agonizing collection of heavy seconds, before bringing the glass of amber liquid up to his lips. “Oh, yeah?”

“Totally. I bet she recognized you from the Pod but was, like, trying not to make a big thing about it.”

Chuckling, opening his eyes, Tommy turned and leveled a _look_ at Lovett. “You think so?”

“A hundred percent,” he replied too quickly. “I totally saw it: She said to herself, ‘That’s Tommy Vietor, host of Pod Save the World. He’s the pinnacle of intelligence and class at Crooked Media and I have gone weak in the knees at this realization.’” 

_What._

Tommy arched an impressive brow. “She somehow recognized me—my face— from our _audio_ podcasts?”

Embarrassment swept across the back of his neck and licked along his jawline. _Shit._ He was in too deep to back out now. He just needed to say something amazing to wipe that look off Tommy’s face. What came out was, “Duh, Tommy.” 

_Fantastic. What a witty rejoinder, Jonathan._ So this was what Hell felt like.

Sitting up, shaking his head, Tommy continued to poke inadvertent holes in Lovett’s thinly-veiled attempt to reveal whether or not he’d found the bartender attractive. “I didn’t even talk to her except to order our drinks, Lovett.”

“Maybe she’s seen your flawless bone structure on one of our many late night talk show appearances. Ever think about that?” 

Someone stop him. He needed to be stopped. He hadn’t even had that much to drink, what the fuck. 

Apparently picking this up, Tommy asked, “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

Lovett ran a hand over his face and muttered honestly, “Not enough for this conversation.”

“You’re… wait.” Tommy cocked his head to the side, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

His whole body went hot, then cold, and his stomach clenched sickly. _Fuck._ Had he really been that transparent? Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. _“What?”_

Delighted, Tommy crowed, “Oh my god, you are, aren’t you? You’re pissed that you weren’t recognized!”

Reeling from relief, but still more flustered than he wanted to admit, Lovett blinked and fumbled for his words. “First of all, we’re not even talking about me—”

“Lovett, when _aren’t_ we talking about you?”

He ignored how fond Tommy sounded, and plowed right on through, “—and second of all… there _is_ no second of all because I’m a gay man and I’m not going back to my hotel room with the Mila Kunis-lookalike bartender from this pseudo-gastro-whiskey-bar-patio-bachelor-party-nightmare!”

Tommy looked dumbfounded. Just absolutely lost. “What are you talking about? Nobody’s going back to their hotel room with the bartender.”

“How can you lie to me like that?”

_“What?”_

“I mean, I thought we were friends, Tommy.”

“I have no idea what’s happening right now, just for the record.”

There. That was his in. That was his way out of this terrible fucking mess. He could work with that. He could _spin_ that. He could joke about _that._ “‘For the record?’ Are you recording this conversation?”

“Mother of God.”

He doubled down: “Are you an agent of Vladimir Putin?”

 _“Lovett,”_ Tommy cried in an attempt to regain some control over the conversation; it was undercut by how thoroughly amused he sounded, even grudgingly so. 

Favs chose that moment to enter the scene and sit on the arm of Lovett’s chair, perching above he and Tommy with a half-smirk on his face. “I didn’t realize we were at the point in the night where we’re accusing each other of being moles for the Russians.” He gave them a look, then, that said, _We may have started a media conglomerate together and I love you both, but I can still pull out the boss card and you’re scraping against my daily allotment of bullshit, particularly during my goddamn bachelor party._ It was so effortlessly fucking supercilious, it was maddening.

Despite this, Lovett wasted no time in looking up at him and trying to recruit him onto his side. “Favs, Tommy’s recording our conversations—he’s in with Kislyak.”

Flicking his gaze first to Tommy, then back to Lovett, Favs seemed pretty skeptical. “ _Our_ Tommy?”

Lovett caught Tommy shrugging helplessly and looking at Favs with _please help me_ eyes.

Leaning down, Favs settled a hand on Lovett’s shoulder, and asked, “What’s going on, bud,” like he was a fucking twelve year-old. 

It was easily the most condescending thing he’d said in the last three hours and it hit Lovett square in the chest, where the tight knot of his insecurities resided. He knew Favs said it to try and lighten the mood, to show Lovett how far off the edge he was veering. Normally, it might’ve done the trick, but right then—particularly with Tommy looking on—all it did was push Lovett further over that edge. “Don’t patronize me, asshole. I’m not fucking drunk.”

Favs rolled his eyes and took his hand back. 

“Lovett,” Tommy said in a way that told him he was both overreacting and being more ridiculous than usual or necessary.

Biting down on his tongue, tasting something sour that twanged against his teeth, Lovett shook his head, suddenly needing out of this conversation—the situation entirely. “Y’know what? I’m leaving. I’ve made the decision, and I’m going.”

“What, back to the hotel?” Tommy sounded confused and disappointed, which was actually kind of appreciated.

“C’mon, Lovett,” Favs sighed—tired, annoyed. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what,” Lovett spit back.

Favs pulled his mouth into a line—so very droll. “Like _you._ ”

“Jon…” Tommy warned, quietly. 

Standing, Lovett scoffed, disgusted—with himself, with Favs trying to rein him in, with everything that had happened over the last few surreal minutes of his life. “I don’t have to take this crap from you.”

Favs watched him with a resigned, half-lidded expression; he didn’t want to fight, but he also clearly didn’t want to participate in Lovett’s tantrum any further. “You’re seriously going back to the hotel?”

Lovett said nothing as he set down his empty glass with a clack on the table and pulled out his phone, ignoring the rash of heat crawling up his chest as he made his way toward the door.

“Lovett, wait.” Tommy stood up and finished the last of his whiskey. “I’ll walk with you.” 

He’d been halfway through completing a Lyft request—his promo code was set to expire sometime next month, and he really wanted that $50 in his pocket—but stopped at Tommy’s offer. His fucking sincerity. _Christ._ Sighing, he nodded and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Yeah, all right.”

“ _Do svidaniya_ , gentlemen,” Favs called after them. 

Lovett lifted a stoic middle finger over his shoulder and did not look back. 

“ _Spokojnoj Nochi_ ,” Tommy volleyed back, grinning at Lovett’s withering glare. 

“Do not encourage him, please.”

***

The streets were oddly quiet and empty for a Friday night, he thought, as he and Tommy made their way back toward the hotel. It was probably a fifteen minute walk from the bar, down sidewalks lined with magnolias and honeysuckle; it made him dizzy. (Or was that the potent mixture of shame, embarrassment, animus, and sexual frustration coursing through his veins? Who could say.)

After two blocks, as they waited on the corner for the light to change, Tommy asked, looking out into the night, "You okay?”

A hollow laugh escaped him as the WALK sign lit up. “Peachy,” was his answer, over-enunciated and sardonic.

“Great,” Tommy said, bland. Inoffensive. They crossed the street in silence and walked another half a block before he tried again: “So do you maybe want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Right.”

Really, Lovett just wanted to get back to his room. Take a shower. Jerk off. Maybe scroll through Twitter and his RSS feeds. Die on his bed for a while. Wake up and forget the night ever happened. Squelch any feelings of melancholy or resentment or whatever the fuck. Be a good friend and groomsman to Favs. Be happy for him again. Act like a normal fucking human around Tommy. It was perfectly doable. Accomplishable things, all. 

Neither spoke again until they reached the hotel. Until they reached Lovett’s room, actually—Tommy’s was further down the hall.

He'd tried to think of something to say in the elevator. Something witty or clever that’d reassure Tommy he was fine. Something that didn’t give away the fact he’d been thinking about him naked for most of the night, and would make quick work of that problem as soon as he was alone. Y’know. Something completely fucking normal. But when they both stopped outside his door, Lovett had nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was entirely possible if he opened his mouth and just started talking the words would find themselves forming a capable, coherent sentence naturally, out of instinct. That wasn't impossible—he was a presidential speechwriter, for fuck’s sake. A comedian. A beloved political commentator, respected on both sides. He had plenty of words—the best words. He just wasn’t sure he trusted himself to do any of that without making a complete ass of himself.

“So, listen.” He really didn't want to, like, have a fucking _conversation_ about this, and he hoped Tommy was perceptive enough to pick that up without an assist if Lovett was making eye contact. "About tonight..."

Tommy looked like he was trying to hide how utterly fucking amused he was by tucking his chin toward his chest, and doing his damnedest to repress the beginnings of a smirk. _Asshole._ "Yeah?" 

Shaking his head, trying to fight a grin of his own, he shrugged. "Can we just chalk it up to jet lag or something?" It was cheeky. A _Hey, it was worth a shot, right?_ that all-but admitted it was bullshit.

This was the part where Tommy was supposed to say something dry and sarcastic with the aim of drawing attention away from Lovett, the way he had in situations prior. The way two people who ruthlessly give each other shit wind up giving each other a break by conceding, _I see you, y'know,_ and staying a deeper conversation until the right moment presented itself.

But that didn't happen.

Instead, Tommy stepped closer and murmured, "I think you can do better than that," low in his throat. Suggestive in a way he had never been before.

The space between them shifted and what had been light and teasing just seconds ago, suddenly became heavy and charged. Goddamn electric. The hair on the back of Lovett's neck stood on end and he became more fully-aware of his body and his proximity to Tommy. It was one of those almost-imperceptible moments that appeared small on the surface, but in reality made the Earth itself tilt sharply on its axis and threatened what he knew to be true. 

It was a challenge, Lovett realized. It was provocation. It was _bait,_ holy shit. And it was like something finally clicked and fell into place inside of him; he licked his lips unconsciously and didn't miss a beat, giving it right back to Tommy the only way he knew how. "Oh, you think so?"

"Of course. I mean, I can understand you throwing me under the bus and accusing me of being a Russian mole—"

"Well, that just makes sense."

"Totally." Tommy took a step closer and leaned against the mouth of the door's alcove, nonchalant. "But that whole thing about the bartender?"

Desire hooking through his belly, Lovett called Tommy's bluff or bravado or whatever it was: "I'm listening."

"I mean, it was pretty transparent: You called me 'the epitome of intelligence and class at Crooked Media,' Lovett."

" _I_ said that," Lovett demanded, fake-aghast and making a show of placing his right hand dramatically in the center of his chest in a _Who, me?_ gesture. "I would never have said that."

The energy between them was on fucking _fire._

Mere inches apart, now, Tommy's eyebrows lifted almost into his hairline. "Really."

Trying to stifle his snickering—enjoying the last few minutes of whatever this was far more than everything earlier that night (sorry, Favs), _plus_ his last two dates from VGL and Surge (respectively)—he ran his thumb along his lower lip. An anchor to the moment or some fucking thing. "'Pinnacle,'" he corrected, unable to keep it in. "I might've said ' _pinnacle_ of intelligence and class.'"

"So you were jealous." It was a statement of fact as much as a question. And Tommy might've been lit up with a smile, but the seriousness behind his gaze slowed everything down, threw everything into stark relief.

Lovett opened his mouth to reply, feeling his entire body turning a bright shade of red, but bit down on his back teeth. Honestly, there were plenty of things he could've said, but none of them were anywhere near good enough. He took in a steady breath. Cleared his throat. "I don't know if I would call it 'jealousy...'" He couldn't lie to save his life, but the words were out of his mouth, naked and edging toward vulnerability, before he fully realized he'd spoken them aloud.

Taking this as his cue, Tommy stepped into Lovett’s personal space and backed him up against the door. Eyes locked together, he reached out and curled a hand around Lovett’s hip, smooth as anything. "Wouldn't you?"

His stomach bottomed out, and the last of his air was robbed from him—forcibly wrung out of him, with no never-mind of the consequences such an action would entail. Without thinking, Lovett took Tommy's face in his hands and kissed him, hard. Like it was the only way he was going to get oxygen back into his lungs. Right goddamn there in the middle of the hallway in fucking Louisiana.

Tommy wasted no time in pressing their bodies as close together as physically possible, even as Lovett leaned against the door for support, back arching like a bow. God, it was so junior year of high school, but it was just so _Tommy Vietor,_ too, that Lovett really couldn't care. At the first opportunity, he licked into Tommy's mouth, greedy and curious. The remnants of the GlenDronach 18 were fiery and sweet, but beneath the alcohol, there was something decidedly _else_ that Lovett felt desperate to discover and catalogue and memorize. Just like he'd done with the way Tommy smelled. (Fresh laundry and the small bit of pomade he always denied using; ink; the kind of patriotic idealism someone as smart as him shouldn’t have anymore. All of that, which existed beyond the whiskey and cigar smoke that belonged to the night.) A small, helpless noise caught in the back of Lovett’s throat as Tommy insinuated a knee between his legs. _Fuck._

Much too quickly, Tommy pulled away. He was out of breath, his mouth red and slick; it was obscene and perfect and everything Lovett had been dying to see for himself since their tenure at the White House. _Jesus._ He had wanted Tommy more than he could’ve possibly articulated, then, all while composing litanies to his fucking starched shirts and his national security clearance sleepless nights and his stupid fucking freckles. Wanting someone the way Lovett had let himself want Tommy didn’t just go away. And now that the having of it—of _him_ —was real and tangible, he didn't want to let him out of his sight.

They stared at each other for a silent moment, an unspoken, mutual _holy shit_ hanging in the air between them. Which set Tommy to looking smug. _Fucking dick._ Lovett could practically hear his inner-monologue. _That's all it takes to render a straight-shooter speechless?_ or something equally east coast elite, which Lovett could not let stand.

Adopting an ambivalent expression, he shrugged a single shoulder. "I mean, of all the public hook-ups I've had, I'd rate this one at, like, three stars."

Tommy rolled his hips against Lovett's once—slow and devastating—in retaliation. "Really. Three stars."

Lovett’s eyes fell closed, “Fuck.”

“Getting a little presumptuous, aren't we,” Tommy breathed against his neck, nipping at his jugular vein. 

Those words coiled like liquid heat around his stomach. “Fuck you,” Lovett muttered, choked and unnecessary as he yanked Tommy closer and kissed him again. Push-pull. Push-pull. Push-pull. The rhythm of them thrummed and echoed inside of him—addicting and new, but also somehow familiar as anything.

Tommy's lips curved up against his in a grin, until the kiss ended in breathy laughter against his mouth. It was intimate and dizzying and possibly the best fucking thing of 2017 so far.

Nudging his hips against Tommy's, Lovett sagged against the door, not trusting his legs to keep him upright quite yet. "I can't fucking believe you waited until we were in New Orleans during Favs’s bachelor party weekend to clue me into the fact that you’re not only not as straight as your closet full of blue checkered button-ups would lead anyone to believe, but that you're also willing to _jump my bones_ in public." His tongue swiped along his bottom lip, hopelessly turned on. "I'd like to file a formal complaint."

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for people who compliment my flawless bone structure."

Lovett groaned. "Ugh, give me a fucking break."

“You’re right, though,” Tommy admitted. “This maybe wasn’t ideal timing...” He slipped both hands beneath the hem of Lovett's t-shirt to trail the tips of his fingers along the bare skin of his abdomen, making him gasp when they brushed against the button of his jeans. God, he was so fucking hot, holy hell.

"Ya think? We could've spent the weekend in your bed instead of listening to fucking Kevin go on about retiling his fucking bathroom for half the night." His voice might've been almost an octave higher than it normally was, but it was steady and biting and that was literally all that mattered at a moment when his body was about 0.2 seconds away from collapsing into a puddle of jelly.

"Your contempt for The Straights is duly noted," Tommy mumbled, taking his hands out from under Lovett's shirt to hook his fingers into his belt loops and pull their hips together again. “Lemme make it up to you." He kissed him, then, hungry and with the kind of heat that started shorting out Lovett's higher brain function.

Lovett was pretty sure he would’ve done anything Tommy asked him to in that moment. Fallen to his knees, stripped naked, jerked him off, sucked him off. Anything. Security cameras be damned. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his room key and handed it to Tommy. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you? I don’t fuck for Putin’s pleasure.”

Tommy chuckled in that hushed way that was killing him slowly. “Is this your roundabout way of confessing your ‘Strip Search for the Country’ fantasy?” 

“Is that a thing? I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It is if you work for National Security.”

“Oh, so it’s actually _your_ fantasy. I get it.” 

Tommy rolled his eyes and Lovett delighted in the flush creeping up his neck. “I mean, as long as I get to see you naked, sure. It can be whatever you want,” he continued, babbling, impatient to see just how far down that rash of embarrassment went.

Unlocking the door, Tommy maneuvered them both inside. “You’re completely fucking insufferable, you know that?”

“And you _love_ it."

  


**Author's Note:**

> The title and the song referenced in this fic is from ["The Flame" by The Black Keys.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfPkDanH74s)
> 
> Comments feed me and my ego the same way "Friend of the Pod" shirts feed Lovett's at a _Lovett or Leave It_ show. But, really, any kind of love is deeply appreciated. Thanks for reading!


End file.
